


oh no. oh no hes drenched in ink. oh no he has a fuCKING AXE

by Random_ag



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Hallucinations, Ink Fumes AU, Pre-Canon, Scents & Smells, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:02:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28792143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag
Summary: Henry inhales ink fumes.It wouldn't be that bad if he wasn't really good at throwing things.(Ink Fumes AU belongs to adobe-outdesign)
Kudos: 23





	oh no. oh no hes drenched in ink. oh no he has a fuCKING AXE

Concerns should have been raised when Henry had suddenly started a very selective game of The Floor Is Lava in which the only player seemed to be himself.

The second red flag was Jack pulling Sammy down with eyes as large as planet Jupiter as he saw the animator come forth with a raised arm, and thankfully his reflexes must have been somewhat slowed down and his sight kind of hindered or distorted because the weapon got stuck a good five centimetres above where the music director’s head had been - although that was less of a hint or warning and more of a nearly lethal epiphany.

In a moment Henry was without a weapon and with all eyes pointed on him.

“Fuck,” he eloquently noted, and ran.

Minutes later he was reported to have stocked up on some easy to come by cans of instant soup (a very good source of nutrients for not exactly wealthy animators too busy crying over the cell that they have been working on for five hours now to properly get a meal ready at work) and was apparently venturing around the upper levels.

Joey discovered as such when he turned a corner and found himself a couple steps away from him, arms overwhelmed by a discreet bunch of aluminum cilinders.

“You can’t eat all of those, you know?”

Henry threw a can straight to his forehead, making him blink rapidly and stumble back.

“Not today, Satan.” he declared.

Rather unwisely, he proceeded to stand perfectly still. Joey was as such able to get much closer to him, with the intention of relieving him of the cold food burdening his arms - which unfortunately had the effect of making his knees buckle down and sending him sprawling on the floor, coughing, crying and making horrible noises of agony.

Untouched and uncaring of his friend’s pain, Henry let out a: “Hah!” and turned sharply to flee, slamming face first into Norman’s chest and jolting from it with a yelp.

The projectionist masterfully avoided a concussion by soup can by leaning to the side; as he straightened himself, he delivered a slap so true it might have rivaled the lightning of Jove himself, and the young animator fell unconscious on the pavement with the red sign of five fingers on his cheek.

“WHAT on _God’s_ GREEN EARTH–” Sammy’s voice reached the elderly handyman, who waved his mighty hand dismissively and reassured him: “He’ll be just fine.”

He then turned to his boss dying horrifically a foot or so from him: “And how about you, Mr. Drew?”

Joey gargled a whine that could have come out of an ensembled of strangled pigs.

“Hm.”

“I feel physically ill,” his boss repeated in a more understandable manner, “I can feel my nails receding into my flesh. I think my teeth are shedding velvet like deer horns.”

Sammy gave a disgusted whine.

“Well that was a horrid image.” Norman agreed, hoisting the mess of a man over his shoulder. Sammy decided to put years of carrying heavy instruments to use and got to work on collecting the shorter and larger man still knowcked out on the floor, apostrophing Joey: “Any idea on what happened to Stein to make him throw cans and axes around like a lunatic lumberjack?”

The animator looked at him in disdain, with a kind of narrow eyed glare reserved for someone who apparently does not have a functioning nose after repeated instances

“He’s _drenched_ in ink,” Joey replied with a pained grimace, “A pipe must have burst and just vomited ink on his entire shirt. It smells _horrendously_ and it’s killing me.”

The projectionist clicked his tongue understandingly, noting that from under Henry’s jacket were indeed dripping large black drops that exhaled foul odored fumes and now stained Sammy’s grumbling hands.

His boss gave another pained cry, and their messed up little quartet left the corridor turned slipping hazard from all the soup cans that had spilled from Henry’s arms when he had been slapped into a vague approximation of the afterlife.

Speaking of Henry, he yawned and woke up about ten minutes later in the infirmary, nearly topless and with Joey scrubbing black crusts off of his friend’s shirt and his own hands with such vicious violence he could have pulverized both, the smell of acetone nearly dazing.

“Had a fucked up dream.” he announced.

Joey turned to him with one of Jack’s laundry clothespins stuck on his sensitive nose: “Yeah, you dhrew an axe ad Sabby and dried do concuss be widh soup cads.”

Henry pondered over that information for a couple moments.

“So it wasn’t a dream.”

“Yeb.”

“Huh.” he commented, scratching at the modified corset which by some miracle managed not to let his chest spill out like large meatballs while also not applying basically any pressure, as otherwise his faulty ribcage would have caved in like an infrastructure made out of soggy bread.

“My cheek stings.”

“Dorbad slapped you dead for a bobedt.”

“Ah. Do we need to change the pipes again?”

“We deed do change dhe dabd pipes agaid.”

“Yes, I imagined.”

The clothespin’s hold was slipping, and the sound of ink being scrubbed away in acetone was reaching desperate speeds, as readjusting it would have sent a geyser of unbearably strong smells too close for the comfort and well being of Joey’s nose.

“Are you good?”

“I'b id hell, Hedry.”


End file.
